Sexscapades
by Cassend
Summary: 100 Kink Drabble Challenge- AliasBlackClaw vs ZetSway Mature content; Prompt 3- Involving lots of female/female
1. Gun Penetration

**ZetSway and AliasBlackClaw Present  
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**Sexscapades**

**100 short drabbles for 100 kink prompts**

_This is rated M for a reason, and assorted drabbles may be AU or otherwise _

_All pairings, all kinks_

_a kink is simply something that draws sexual arousal from a person  
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**prompt 1- Gun Penetration  
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She's speaking but I can't quite hear her. I can't take my eyes off her pale and lithe naked body, and the weapon in her hands. My very own Springfield bolt-action rifle. And it's loaded.

This is a dangerous position for me to be in. Strapped down on a strange bed in a strange country. With her. I'm trying to stay calm. But at any moment, she could end my life. Here, bound and gagged, with nothing but my pride. She flicks her tongue across the barrel of my gun, her smile widening as she watches me quiver.

I flinch when she makes contact. Cool, slippery metal between my thighs. She attempts to soothe me by pumping my flagging erection with her free hand. I shiver and shake, held fast by makeshift arm and leg restraints. My clothes are bundled up and stuck beneath my ass. I'm on display, powerless to stop her.

She goes slowly, inch by inch invading me with hard steel. She's nuts. Crazy. I fight to keep my breathing steady and tell myself to think positive. There may be a barrel of a gun in my ass right now, but Ada wouldn't kill me, right?

Four inches later and she's going deeper, polished wood banded with steel brackets sheathed within me as she pushes the forestock further up into places it doesn't belong.

It's awful. I want her to stop. The pain, stretching, burning of clenched muscle makes my whole body tense. She keeps telling me to relax, as if it's going to make it better. As if I'll start enjoying this suddenly. I want to close my eyes, to pretend I'm somewhere else, somewhere more pleasant, but I can't. Can't take my eyes off her hands. If she pulls that trigger…

She's fucking me with it now. Slowly. Slow strokes, receding and resurfacing feelings of fullness and pain. Until she twists the gun and the angle changes. I gasp and cringe as a spike of pleasure courses through me. My cock is hard and aching in seconds.

I feel sick.

She lowers her mouth over my cock and repeats the motion. Another thrust, another spike. Over and over again, faster and faster and I'm screaming behind the gag, limbs tensed and aching in the restraints. The world is a cruel place. But she just doesn't stop. She won't stop until she gets what she wants.

I won't give it to her, so she forces it from me, and I'm fighting back tears of pain and humiliation. She sucks every hard-earned drop of my seed down her throat as if it's the last time she'll ever drink. I sag in the restraints and she unties me. Collects her clothes and walks away.

She leaves me there, shameful and vulnerable. She leaves the gun between my open thighs.

**-one-**

He probably should've trusted his intuition when he saw her sitting on a hospital gurney squeezing a semi auto between her thighs. He told himself 'It's just a dream' as she stroked the metal length of the weapon, sighed against it and cast a cloud on the surface. It was cocked and loaded.

He felt even _more_ numbed to reality when her tongue (he'd never seen the damn thing in his life, and suddenly it was there) licked up the sights. He tried to say her name, but his voice was gone and stuck in his throat. Damn his hallucinations and dreams.

Her tongue slid up the metal barrel, down it, wetting it.

He didn't fight it as her voice sunk its teeth into his ears -_god why was she invading his head?-_ and pulled him closer. Leon felt his body move of its own accord, through the murk, but her hand drifted over the back of his pants, between his legs, and it felt far too real for a dream.

"Get on the gurney." She muttered, words echoing inside his head. He felt blind and muted, heart racing, but mind empty. He should've felt angry at her, betrayed, unhappy. Dreams with her were tormenting and erotic, and he should've felt angry, but no, it was her who was scowling, all too suddenly with the rifle squeezed harder between her thighs, smashing her short red dress to her stomach.

From his position he saw that flash of her thong, the one he always imagined she wore. Red lattice lace... She snapped at him, he didn't know what she said, but it was angry, harsh. She was pissed, but he wasn't sure why, and he didn't care because he was on his back and her hand was under his boxers and squeezing him stiff.

He wanted so badly to say her name, groan it, moan it against her syrupy succubus lips, but no sound escaped him. Her fingers worked over him, he felt the gunwear on them, the bones beneath the skin. She slid off the gurney, steps heavy. She told him to lie on his stomach, a violent demand but he did it. He could feel his skin prickle at the hand running down his back, memorizing the knots of his spine.

She traced his shoulder with the point of the damn rifle, and he really should have woken up, because this woman, angry woman, was pointing a gun at his naked back while he was lying on a gurney, hard, facefirst. Ada wouldn't hurt him, he knew she wouldn't hurt him, even when her hand wrenched the thick of his pants off, he knew…

She brought the rifle to her lips again, sucked on the tip, loud noises that would haunt him when he woke, for sure. Why was she angry, why couldn't he hold her, bury into her, love her? He would hiss her name, moan it if he could…

She said something, something malicious, and slid the rifle between his legs, brushing his thighs and trailing her saliva behind it.

'_It's a dream… It's a dream even if you feel her lips on your hip, her tongue on your waist.'_

He wanted so badly to wake up as the barrel stuck to his leg and she crept onto him after it. He thanked the dream for no pain as she pressed metal against the curve of his ass, pushed the long wet muzzle in just a bit. The invasion made him sick, want to throw her off, and the kisses to his back did nothing to sooth it.

"Just relax." She sighed, dug a hand under his belly and found his dick- hard, leaking, throbbing.

God she was cruel, but he couldn't move. He couldn't move a muscle.

And she pressed it further in, filled him, stretched him, with her unkind smirk against his skin. She was laughing, quietly as she rocked the long barrel into him, pried his legs apart with her feet. Her hand squeezed him again.

He wanted to scream and kick her off, but he couldn't, and god _he felt it up there, but her hand was milking him too fast._

Her hand was on the trigger as she pressed it deep.

"Stop chasing me, Leon." She hissed. He shuddered at her voice, her velvet voice, angry, gorgeous. Her fingers tightened around him as he felt the orgasm, stretching his spine, thrashing, loathing her for drawing it out in spurts, hand drenched, gurney stained.

He heard the tick sound.

He woke up before he heard the gunshot.


	2. Necrophilia

****Link to list of kink prompts is on my profile, check it out and add yours? -ABC  
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****prompt 2- **Necrophilia**

defined as- sexual attraction to corpses

"Ashley, go hide."

"Okay," I whispered, ducking into an old, rusted metal box and closing the lid. It smelled awful. Considering it was sitting in a waste processing facility, I assumed it must have contained garbage at one point. But at least it wasn't dark.

A shaft of white light shone from the pockmarked side of the box, years of rust and neglect having corroded the metal. I quietly hunkered down and put my eye to the biggest hole I could find.

I watched Leon traverse the room carefully, checking every shadowed corner, kicking every crate in effort to determine if it was safe to continue or not.

But somewhere out there, I could hear it. The labored, raspy breathing of… something. A monster. Another one of Saddler's creations. One of those horrifying and damn near immortal things. Leon had mentioned they were called Regenerators.

And I knew Leon could hear it too. I quietly prayed he would get the jump on it, and not the other way around.

I tensed as he disappeared behind a particularly large crate that obscured my line of sight. Without the visual, it was almost as though he wasn't there. Every movement, every footfall he made was silent. Until he found it.

I watched him dash back into my line of view, gun pointed and eyes fixed on the monster that I could still hear, but not see. I could picture it though. Red slits for eyes, a wicked grin of pointed teeth, staggering on unstable legs toward its prey. Leon put his eye behind the scope of his semi-automatic and fired.

One shot, and the monster howled in pain. Another shot and it howled again. Third shot, and the only sound was the disgusting punch of a bullet ripping through the monster's supple grey flesh.

Leon pointed his gun at toward the ground. His attacker had lost its legs. He took carful aim, every muscle tensed and poised to deliver the killing blow.

He fired. And as I watched the monster come into view, its leg regenerating faster than should have been possible, he missed.

It should have been no problem. Aim again, fire again. But Saddler's monster was faster than him. I watched its arms, like Mr. Fantastic, stretch across the gap between it and Leon to pull him in. I watched, eyes wide, heart pounding, as it sunk its teeth into his neck. Watched him struggle and squirm, screaming, blood spewing from his carotid artery like from a garden hose and falling on the lid of my metal hideout like rain.

I tasted bile in my throat. My stomach turned. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Silent now. Dead. Limp in the monster's arms. My heart thundered in my chest.

Leon was dead.

Shock. I was going into shock. The man my father sent to rescue me from this nightmare was dead.

But the creature didn't stop. It chewed and clawed at Leon's corpse until his clothing was in rags and his limbs were barely attached. I fought to keep myself silent. Fought the bile rising in my throat. I didn't dare close my eyes.

I saw it all. Saw Leon, upside down now, mangled, bloody, held by the ankles by this… thing. I covered my mouth to stifle my gag as it penetrated him. Moved its hands to his hips and fucked him. Fucked the limp, dead, and torn body of the one man who could take me from here. And this time I couldn't stop my stomach from turning.

I squeezed my eyes shut and puked. It echoed throughout the waste plant like a gunshot.

I heard the monster stop. Drop Leon like a ragdoll.

The sound of its dragging feet echoed in my ears. I listened to it shuffle toward me and prayed to anyone that might be listening that I wouldn't suffer. That I would make it to heaven after it killed me.

**_-two-_**

The target triggered something in it, something that betrayed the programming and made its way down into the depths of whatever mortal, mammalian tissues it possessed. It didn't stop to consider the morality of the act. His target triggered something in it that recalled gender identity. It was a 'He', and this dead body in his massive palm was a 'she'. This body was a 'she' in an outfit barely covering her skin.

He didn't recognize the smell, touch, or taste of her skin, only that she was a specimen of a female that was his target and also physically attractive despite the graying-color of her skin. A great gaping hole through her chest finished her off. Her clothing hung on her like dead moss.

Something told him she was beautiful; perhaps the ability to survive his pursuits up to this point persuaded him of it? He didn't have the capacity for the why, and really, it didn't matter. He carried her body through the rain-swept streets, one sutured hand enough to grip her by the thick of her thigh.

His orders had run out with her elimination. The last S.T.A.R..

Jill Valentine now this bloody, broken doll hanging from his fingers. Something about her impressed itself upon him.

He stabbed holes through the infected that shambled too close, smelled her fresh blood. He had no desire to consume like the lesser zombie. He had an urge though, an urge to keep the dead S.T.A.R., a formidable enemy.

In this state, she was no longer a target.

He dropped her on the hood of a car after the walk was too aimless, a tendril curling between his fingers.

He didn't consider the morality of exploring the cadaver in the middle of the streets, didn't consider the whys or why nots of sliding a thick whip of muscle between her legs, the tentacle cold, the body colder. Dead, but better this way.

She wouldn't run from him this time, shoot him with bullets, just be still. Her panties ripped, and she was lifeless inside, but still sticky. Strange he felt at all, her upper body curled in on itself and her thighs spread limp.

He inspected her insides with the tentacle, the insides of this S.T.A.R., and endorphins flooded his system.

It felt good so deep inside his adversary. He growled, recognizing it. "STARS…"

This was STARS, a flood of adrenaline shooting through his arm, a fat tentacle pulsating between a dead woman's legs. It felt almost as good as killing her. He growled and recoiled the appendage, scooped her up as mindless undead flocked towards them.

He kept her tight against his coat and walked onwards.


	3. Tongues

******Sorry for the delay- ABC was in the ER. It was awesome~******

**prompt 3- Tongues**

I found her a dying soldier. Trying to hold it together, trying to go back to a normal life, back to the only thing she knew.

Jill Valentine, a changed woman, no matter how she tried to hide it. She spent countless hours in counseling, answering repetitive questions, trying with every fiber of her being to toss aside all the hurt and abuse that these doctors deemed "incorrect." A barrier to her full reinstatement. An invisible prison that kept the weight of a gun from her hands and the security of her soldier's uniform from her suddenly vulnerable frame.

She finally arrived, hours after midnight. I had been waiting. Bored, but curious enough to stay. I made no attempt to conceal myself as the tired woman dragged herself through the front door and flopped down on her couch. Soundless.

The red of my dress catches her eye as I stride into her field of vision. She looks at me, her eyes brilliant blue and full of emotions I can't quite read. But she's upset. It seems she's always upset.

She doesn't resist when I press her into the couch, lips against hers as my tongue slips into her mouth and she sighs, silently. I feel it in her chest. I work quickly to disrobe her. I need to taste her.

A groan passes her lips as I touch her, pressing a single finger into her. Another groan as I make contact with my tongue. It's not long before the sadness is gone from her frame, she tenses and relaxes over and over again as I play her like a harp, controlling her every movement with the flick of my tongue. Every hitch of her breath, every twitch of her hips, and she's tangling her hand in my hair, urging me on as I tease her with ghosts of sensation over her clit.

My last thought is of myself as she quivers in my arms, her voice growing louder and louder with each passing second as I drive her to release. Maybe another time I'll come by and visit her again

_**-three-**_

The Delta days were over, but nothing much had changed in rank and form. They were still six murderers with the same cloak and dagger aliases. Parting ways was inevitable and simple, a casual "goodbye", with a nod and a step into a metro taxi. That was all.

She didn't care about any of her cut-throat colleagues. A cupful of mercenaries was hardly a grain of sand in the cogs of her every day. Years after the Raccoon City incident, the folding of Umbrella, Michaela Heinzwaffen was still "Bertha". She was the anonymous "prisoner abuse" ethics case that the press loved sniffing out. It was a funny tail end for her life, working for a government branch stuffed into the dark corners of pop culture mythos. Interrogation was her forte; years later she was still "Bertha".

Of all places to meet, years later- a lifetime even- a shoddy hardware shop was less of a stage than it should have been.

She-wolf herself- couldn't have been cast more perfectly if they tried. Delta days were over, and Lupo had not changed either.

There were things about her that Bertha remembered- not cared for- but remembered.  
>She told herself that as she stepped in beside her former "wolf mother", walked down a street clogged with car exhaust and the stink of the city, talked of her menial life as the gray clouds lost light.<p>

For some reason, they walked for hours.

Old days covered in dust and the smell of rotting flesh found their footsteps. It might've been their last mission, their climatic finish, but it left imprints that lasted.

Delta team, dead and alive.

"Why are you here?"

It was eventually demanded, pleasantries passed and a dozen blocks later. Lupo- she only knew her as such, was trite.

"I'm calling you back. The pay is enough for me to make a house call."

"How much?"

"In the millions."

They kept walking, back to her squashed brownstone covered with more medical periodicals than signs of life. Dishes grew dust.

The invitation was extended without a word, Lupo scouted the interior and commented on her lack of "living space".

Of course there was no "living space", the hours clocked into the hovel could hardly be called "living" by any stretch.

She let the woman have her small conniption over the amount of dust on the windows, going so far as to make it her personal mission to make use of the kitchen sponge she hadn't once touched.

She did have a rather obsessive personality…

There were things she remembered about Lupo, things that she didn't care for, but remembered.

Firstly, Lupo was a serious woman. She was carved by her severity, her gravity. Every line and fiber was wired tight in her body. No nonsense was her motto.

Secondly, She was in a state of perpetual fury. Her threats were never empty- her promises were always good. Never once did she hear the woman lie- though her verity was spiked with hellfire and jimson. It was strange. She needed to be angry.

Thirdly, for all her rage and seriousness, the woman who was classified as a class-5 threat to society had one of the most hypnotizing features she'd encountered.

One thing didn't lead to another, one thing led to something that kicked the bucket with a nuclear missile in 98'. Bertha didn't laugh at Lupo's cat-like hysterics as the older woman spat at her for how "shitty" she let her place look, although it was comical.  
>Her lips must've been numb from how fast her insults were peeling them.<p>

"Did you miss it that much?"

So cold to something that spilled them over behind the backs of their pack, against walls, quick, violent, and destructive.

Everything in the woman screamed "yes" but her spoken word.

And she remembered the perpetrator so very well.

Tongue, not just a stereotypical human organ, but it was a special case, a culmination of things- her tongue. Fascinating thing it was, perfect length- came to a point when she hissed. She rolled a malicious accent with that tongue, nasal and livid- she was always angry. Orders, screams, demands- warm, wanton, furious.

Her words had fangs of their own, spun thick and caustic. She could've hung her assault rifle and spat the hordes of undead down with her ferocious swears.  
>The woman of acid with a sense of humor outlined in rusted nails, it was so confusing at first why her lips tasted- not clean- but… human? She was expecting to taste metal, medicinal bandages, even perhaps some afterthought of hard liquor and smoke. She tasted lips and tongue after all these years.<p>

Anger had a taste and it was sucking her useless human body down like it always did. She was being seduced by an organ, a muscle, a woman who conditioned her to crack open a shell she never dared to. No names, no words, just her tongue and that was enough quicksilver persuasion.

Just that tongue and she was digging nails still rimmed with rubbing alcohol into Lupo's skull and anticipating the next move. Just a movement over her neck, a lick and a suck, and she was waiting for her again, subservient medic. They were a decade and a half in the past and biting at each other's lips- her tongue damned them both to obliviousness.

_She remembered Lupo so very well for fusing rage into a kiss like a narcotic._

_A/N- Bottom one crossposted on DA_


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